Fantastic Tactics or How to Alienate Other-Worlders and Make Enemies
by DunsanysSomniloquence
Summary: Marche decides to acquire climate-appropriate clothing. Due to a misunderstanding, everything 'butterfly effect's out of control and all hell breaks loose.


CHAPTER 1: Wherein Marche Compounds the Problem

**Cyril, City of Beginnings **

Marche glanced about the desert town that had materialized out of nowhere. The architecture reminded him of arid places he read about during Geography class. Then again, the descriptions of such locations were even dryer and he was never good at Geography to begin with.

"Huh? Where am I?" Marche asked to no one in particular, yet half hoping to receive an answer in return anyway. If the world he found himself in was one in which settlements sprung up from nothing at all, it was worth a shot.

At that moment, Marche spotted a man who sported a turban and several articles of flowing clothing. He realized, then that he himself had somehow been fitted with an unusual set of armor and a short sword. Upon inspection, the set of items seemed to be in pristine condition, so he was grateful for this small boon, despite the fact that he was no closer to discovering how he acquired and equipped it.

_I don't remember wearing this to bed. _

Accustomed as he was to St. Ivalice's colder climate, Marche decided to follow the turban wearing man in order to ask him where he might procure garments that could shield him from the sun. He ascended the step-like dirt path that was laid out before him and squeezed through a narrow passage between two buildings, nearly tripping over a vase someone thoughtlessly discarded as he did so. Despite the abrupt way Marche was flung into this town, the disorienting and no doubt disconcerting feeling of being stranded in unknown territory with nary a comforting thought for company, and the grim prospect of forever being trapped in a world far away from his loved ones, one and only one thought occupied his mind:

_ Whoever was in charge of city planning was a moron._

Marche was wrenched from his reverie by a sharp pain to his gut. He had bumped into someone.

"Oh, excuse me!" said Marche.

"Watch where you're going, sson!"

Marche blinked and stared at the victim of his careless action. He appeared to be a giant bipedal lizard in flamboyantly red martial arts attire. Accompanying him was another lizard, who was armored in pieces of plate mail. This was too much.

"Y-you're a lizard!" he said.

The first lizard narrowed his eyes. "What did you ssay!?

"I, um, erp."

Of out the corner of his eye, Marche noted how the townsmen seemed to make an implicit and unanimous decision to leave the area with the utmost of haste.

"You ssaid lizard!" said the lizard. "It takess a lot of nerve to call a bangaa a lizard!

The lizard, or bangaa as he was formerly called, took a step forward and gave Marche a look that, in no uncertain terms, spelled out a painful and violent future. Beads of sweat dropped from Marche's brow. He was not afraid of lizards, as such, but a creature of this size was intimidating, the possibility that it was versed in martial arts notwithstanding. It had only been mere minutes since Marche had entered this town, and already, he found himself faced with a dangerous foe. Was it fate or simply cruel coincidence for him to be ripped from all that he had ever known and cast into an exotic world far beyond his comprehension, only to end up suffering at the hands of an individual who claimed the moral high ground on the foundation of a trivial mistake. Was his life merely a carnival of nothings to be paraded before a crowd of decadence?

Anger and determination suffused through him, intertwining together and honing his being into an blade aimed straight at the heart of the world. If the higher powers deemed him nothing more than a balatronic plaything, then he had two words for them:

_Screw that._

Marche slammed his shoulder into the lizard and sent him sprawling to the ground. His armored companion immediately whipped his sword from his scabbard and lashed out at Marche. The sword slammed into Marche with the power of a hurricane, blasting him into one of the buildings. With a thunderous crack, the bricks of the house caved in, sending a torrent of dust into the air, and Marche found himself unceremoniously lying atop a bed alongside a dumbfounded occupant.

"Pardon the interruption," said Marche, turning his head to face the home owner, "but did you happen to see a turban-wearing man come by here earlier?"

Before the home owner could reply however, the red bangaa emerged through the receding dust cloud like a miniature whirlwind and slammed into the bed. Marche rolled off an instant before the bed and its unfortunate occupant were sent flying through the opposite wall. He drew his sword in motions mimicking that of the armored bangaa and lashed out. The weapon crashed against the red bangaa, sending him back through his point of entry and out of the house. However, no sooner had he left than the armored bangaa poked his face in, looked around, and, upon, seeing Marche, readied his weapon.

Marche engaged his opponent and began to thrust and slash with wild abandon. Each time his blade flew out, it was met by its counterpart. Marche increased the rate of his onslaught, but it seemed a futile gesture, as the armored bangaa kept pace. Faster and faster they went, the tempo of the sword dance accelerating and playing out to a frenetic cacophony of steel. It seemed as though he and his opponent were adrift a sea of darkness, each motion leaving a faint afterimage on the fabric of reality. The only sounds were the shrill screeches of metal clashing against metal, which seemed to lag behind the actual moments of impact and echo into the void beyond. Movements slowed and sped with no rhyme or reason, as if time itself operated according to its own whims. Marche had attained a state of higher awareness.

The bangaa suddenly made a misstep and Marche was brought back to his senses. He seized the opportunity to deliver a strike that knocked the bangaa into a building across the way.

Marche stepped over the pile of smashed brick and walked forward. Atop the roof of the structure before him, the red bangaa stood, his arms aimed toward the skies. A light breeze blew into the town, scattering dust, before it began to pick up in intensity. The wind streams seemed to condense right above the red bangaa's hands, forming a small swirling orb. Reluctant to part with his sword, Marche began to search the ground for a wayward brick or other potential candidate for an improvised ranged weapon.

"Get ready for ssome air raising action!" said the red bangaa.

Before Marche could finish groaning in response, the bangaa flung the sphere of wind at him. He dodged to the left right as the orb made contact with the ground. A loud howling noise filled the area, and Marche felt a huge torrent of air whip him into the sky. He took a moment to enjoy the view the altitude afforded him before be began to plummet downward. The ground drew nearer and nearer, until he slammed into the rooftop of a hitherto untouched building, breaking through and sending rays of illuminating sunlight inside. This time, there was no bed to cushion his fall, and Marche spent a moment becoming better acquainted with the floor.

Deciding he had enough, he picked himself off the human-shaped imprint he made and, ignoring the cries of outrage from the home owner, opened the door and walked outside. He dusted himself off and scooped an abandoned vase off the floor with his free hand. Rounding the corner of the building, he discovered the red bangaa attempting to gather wind streams in for another wind based assault. As breathtaking as the experience may have been, Marche was in no hurry to repeat the events, so he drew back his arm, took aim, and hurled the vase at the red bangaa. The red bangaa's eyes grew wide before the vase shattered against his face, sending him over the other side of the building and causing the wind streams to disperse.

"Looks like you're just a bunch of hot air," quipped Marche.

"What the kupo?" exclaimed someone.

Marche looked in the direction of voice. Standing off to the side of the wreckage was a creature than looked to be an amalgamation of several different creatures Marche had observed in his life packaged into one. It had long ears, leathery wings, and what appeared to be a ball of pure fuzz on the end of a stem protruding from its head. It's body was covered in fur and it wore both clothing and a horrified expression on its face.

"Uh, come again?" asked Marche.

"Look at this place! It's a mess!"

It was true, Marche reflected, that the town had most likely seen better days. Two of the houses were missing large sections of their walls, while one house was in dire need of a new roof. A large crater marked the spot where the red bangaa's air orb collided with the ground, making it even more difficult to traverse the multi-tiered town. In the distance, the smashed remains of a bed lay against the side of an otherwise untouched house. Brick, tile, clay, and dust littered the area, giving the whole place the semblance of having been hit by a tornado, which was not far from the truth.

Marche's field of vision was immediately blocked by the imposing figure of what appeared to be a living suit of armor astride a gigantic yellow bird.

"Infraction of the law," boomed the figure. Though its helmet masked the front of its face, its voice rang out with perfect clarity. "All violators will be sent to prison."

"Wait, I can explain," said Marche.

"The accused is charged with multiple accounts of property damage, assault and battery against citizens not affiliated with sanctioned clans, and disturbing the peace." The figure raised a hand and formed a blood red card-like object above its head.

"Don't I get a say in this?"

"No."

The figure slapped the red card on Marche's face. He had perhaps a second to reflect on the impolite nature of such an action, before he felt himself being yanked through what felt like a coin sized pocket in the air. He felt his insides churn as if he were being torn apart from within. And then his awareness was seized and plunged into oblivion.

**Mountain Town Sprohm**

In a dank, dimly lit dungeon cell, Marche and the two bangaa waited out their sentence. They sat with their backs against the wall, glaring at each other and passing the time in silence. After an unspecified amount of time, the red bangaa finally spoke up.

"You know, a ssimple apology would have worked just fine"


End file.
